Poem Noir

Late on the scene, I duck under the yellow tape,
Light a cigarette and spot the white silhouette:
Outline of a word, some unpronounceable shape,
Covered in spatters of a rorschach alphabet.

What am I doing in this deadbeat luncheonette?
Murderous intent bleeds into the cityscape.
Meanwhile I mumble, my tongue -- a tourniquet,
Cutting circulation off the fugitive's escape.

Lipstick on a napkin, a butterfly of sense,
Flits through a broken window, swept into the mist --
Always a clue to guide me through these labyrinths,
Splitting darkness like the voice of a hypnotist,

Promising another night: pistol in my fist,
I breach the apartment which the murderer rents,
Sentence the unspeakable, and if it resists,
Put a bullet in the silence it represents.